Fix You
by Mocking Jai
Summary: When exposed to light and warmth, ice will inevitably melt away. Sherlock never talks about his history and John is okay with that, after all- ignorance is bliss. But there were times that John couldn't help but see, even if he didn't want to. Rated T for mild language and themes of self-harm. Series of drabbles. Songfic. Fix You (Boyce Avenue cover)


**Fix You**

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who inspired confidences. There were days when this frustrated his flat mate, John Watson, practically out of his mind. There was other days when he silently thanked every God he could think of that he did know so little. He didn't think he wanted the extra burden of knowing what life had been like for the young Sherlock Holmes. So while he was open and available for his friend, he was secretly grateful Sherlock valued his own privacy so highly.

But whatever the consulting detective might say, John was not an unobservant person. He was a doctor; every patient who he treated was a puzzle: what was the problem? Would there be complication? Was the patient going to require special care? He often had to find secrets his patients were hiding because the lack of information could cause an improper diagnosis. Some of the things he observed about his roommate were concerning and, sometimes, downright frightening. But he never pointed out his observations. He was content to keep a careful record since he knew if he did anything to make his flat mate aware of these moments of weakness he would undoubtedly strive to rectify the matter until he was inevitably successful.

Sherlock Holmes was never one to speak about himself unless it was to comment on his brilliant mind or superiority in general. As such, a year had passed since Dr. Watson had moved in to 221B Baker Street and he still knew next to nothing about his roommate's history. Nothing he had been told anyway. There were instances, however, that brought about enlightenment on the subject.

**When you try your best but you don't succeed**

**When you get what you want but not what you need**

**When you feel so tired but you can't sleep**

**Stuck in reverse**

The first of such incidences was such a minor thing that John was more than half tempted to write it off completely and forget the whole thing. Sherlock had been in one of his thinking moods that caused their usually noisy flat to descend into heavy silence. John had only been living with Sherlock for less than two months at that point and was not nearly as familiar with his roommate as he would become in later years. So when he asked Sherlock, several times, _(couldn't the man bloody well listen!)_ if he wanted anything from the store, he didn't even think about it when he reached out his hand and shook Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention. He flinched and stood quickly to spin around and face John, a slight panic reflected in his eyes but his posture was undoubtably on the attack.

Sherlock quickly relaxed and listened to John's apologizes but refused to accept them, maintaining that they weren't necessary for such a little thing. John easily let it go because he really did need to get to the store if they wanted to eat dinner at a reasonable time tonight. He did admit to himself that his new flat mate's reaction had been concerning but not unreasonable. Besides, Sherlock was wound so tight it was a wonder he wasn't jumping and startling at every little thing. John just made a mental note not to touch Sherlock when he was concentrating and likely to be disturbed.

Such a small thing… in the end he only flinched, right? But this was not the end at all, but the beginning.

**And the tears come streaming down your face**

**When you lose something you can't replace**

**When you love someone but it goes to waste**

**Could it be worse?**

It was just a moment. A single moment where time seemed to slow as John handed Sherlock his tea and the man's sleeve had come up a bit high along his wrist. The ridges marring the skin were not obvious to the common eye but John was a doctor and was trained to see such things. He couldn't find the control to be polite and look away, so he just stared with his mouth slightly agape, his mind screeching to a standstill. After a moment when John had still not released his grip on the tea cup, Sherlock cleared his throat. John finally managed to look away and up into the closed off face of his friend. They sat like that for an unbearably long moment, Sherlock watching John watch him.

"Thank you for the tea, John."

"What is that?"

"An experiment." After another moment where John was obviously waiting for him to continue. "An unsuccessful one."

"I see."

And he did. He could imagine a young Sherlock, desperately unhappy, desperately bored, alone with nothing to do with that big brain of his. Unhappy enough to hurt himself. For an experiment. He thought about what Sherlock was like when he was bored. It seemed, at times, that his lank frame could hardly contain his energy and angst when faced with no outlet for his energies. What had he done to deter the boredom when he was a child? He imagined a young, confused teen that greatly resembled his friend but lacked the self-control he now was known for and was most assuredly even more impulsive and foolhardy in his pubescence. The person he imagined was desperate. Desperate to feel, to discover, to escape. For a moment he heard Mycroft's voice in his head, "what might we deduce about his heart?" Isolated. Cold. Troubled.

Sherlock shook his arm out and the sleeve came down again, hiding the scars and ending their discussion. If only John's thoughts could be so easily silenced.

**And high up above or down below**

**When you're too in love to let it go**

**But if you never try you'll never know**

**Just what you're worth**

In the end it was entirely an accident. Watson was reading, perhaps at the point that he was indecently engrossed in the novel when Holmes came up behind him and began reading over his shoulder. At first John didn't notice the presence behind him until Sherlock inched a bit closer and his warm breath rushed over the back of John's neck. The next thing he knew his friend was covering his face with one hand as blood leaked between his fingers. He could still feel the impact on his elbow and the dawning horror and guilt blooming in his chest.

"Christ, Sherlock. I'm sorry. Let me-"

He stopped talking when Holmes held up a hand and John could not begrudge his friend the quiet he was clearly asking for. Once Sherlock determined that John had suitably calmed down and wasn't going to strike him again he took a seat in his favorite arm chair "I'll be right back with some stuff."

Watson left for the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a towel, glass of water, aspirin and an ice pack. He was fully prepared to walk Sherlock through getting his nose to stop bleeding but he froze in the door way when he saw his friend. He was still sitting in his arm chair but was leaning forward and pinching his nose in the correct way, a handkerchief held to his face soaking the blood. While Watson was surprised that Holmes seemed to know what he was doing, he was more surprised to see the tired resignation and long suffering air he held himself with. His guard was still up but there was no anger or judgment in his blank expression, only a bone deep weariness his flat mate had never seen in the normally very energetic man. While Sherlock was known for his bouts of listlessness this was different and carried a weight to it that frankly concerned his friend.

Sherlock held out his hand expectantly without looking at John and when he was given the icepack he placed it with practiced movements on the back of his neck and sighed in relief. He sat quietly while John hovered a few feet away. Eventually Sherlock stopped staring at the wall and looked at his flat mate for first time since he had come back from the kitchen.

He took this as permission to speak. "Where did you learn to stop nosebleeds like that?"

Sherlock froze minutely and did not reply and was quiet for so long that John had begun to give up hope of him answering.

When he did speak it was very quiet, almost mumbled, "School teaches a person many things and not all of them are found in books."

He stopped talking after that and eventually John sat heavily into his chair again and held his face in his hands.

**Lights will guide you home**

**And ignite your bones**

**And I will try to fix you**

As cases went this last one had been pretty bloody awful. John was used to living off the high of ending a case, the lives that were saved because Sherlock was on the case. They had been too late this time. John was sure he would never- could never- forget the sight of that little girl lying on the floor. In pieces. The other thing he couldn't forget was Sherlock's face when they found her. Raw, unmitigated emotion flashed through his eyes and his shoulders slumped in defeat for just a moment before the detective stiffened and froze over like winter in the grips of spring.

So, naturally, the first thing the doctor prescribed when they got back to their flat was hard liquor. He downed his in one before handing Sherlock his own full glass before sitting heavily in his armchair. It took him a moment, after watching Sherlock stare dejectedly at the amber liquid in his glass before John realized his mistake. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry, I forgot you don't drink." He leaned forward to take the glass back but his flat mate downed the alcohol like he was a man lost in the desert, dying of thirst. "Okay then…"

John was genuinely a little concerned now, he knew his friend had an aversion to alcohol, he didn't know if it was because of his previous history of drug abuse of if he did not enjoy the feeling of losing control of himself but whatever his reasons Watson had yet to ever see him take a drink. The only explanation John had ever received on the subject was, "In my experience alcohol turns men into complete bastards."

Now he watched Sherlock get up and refill his glass, drink it down and refill it once again. John stood quickly and placed his hand gently but firmly over his friend's hand on his glass, keeping him from taking another shot. He doesn't need to say anything, he knows Sherlock sees the warning in his eyes just like he sees every other damn thing. Watson sees something breaking away from his friend and reacts instinctually, if a little awkwardly, when he places his other hand on Sherlock's opposite shoulder almost in an embrace.

They stand like that for what feels like forever, Sherlock unwilling to accept comfort and Watson unwilling to back down. And then the shaking starts. It starts with his lips trembling lightly with emotion and John sees the frustration in his eyes. Sherlock's mouth pulls into a snarl, all anger and pride, refusing to accept this betrayal from his body. But he can't contain it. The shaking spreads to his hands then suddenly his shoulders are vibrating under John's comforting touch.

He hardly follows what happens next, it happens so quickly and is so unexpected. Sherlock rips his hand out from under John's and with his whole body throws the glass at the wall where it shatters and John is stuck helplessly watching the amber liquid drip down the wall like tears. Sherlock slides down the wall in exhaustion, his anger quickly defused. He holds his head in his hands but he has stopped staking.

John slowly moves to sit next to him with his back against the wall but does not attempt to offer physical comfort again. Sherlock is mumbling quietly to himself and John has to strain to hear the whispered words, "stupid, stupid, stupid! It should have been obvious from the very beginning. What did I do wrong? Come, there must be something! Think, damn you. That's all your good for. God, I can't find it, I can't find the mistake. Where did I error?" At this point the detective had fistfuls of his hair in his clenched hands and was tearing at his scalp in a desperate attempt to figure out the answer.

Hearing his friend tear himself apart proves to be too much for John and he acts on his instincts to comfort and protect. He grabs Sherlock's wrists and gently untangles his hands from his dark locks and holds them away from his body all the while softly reprimanding him, "Sherlock, stop. You have to let go or you'll hurt yourself. Come on, there was nothing more you could have done. You didn't make a mistake, you were brilliant, perfect."

Sherlock looks up with surprisingly dry eyes and gauges his roommate for truthfulness, desperately wanting to believe but knowing he cannot accept that answer. John knows this too but continues anyway because he wants Sherlock to believe him almost as much as Sherlock himself does.

The blue eyes look away first, to the floor in embarrassment and he mumbles something John doesn't catch but it sounds suspiciously like a thank you.

When exposed to light and warmth, ice will inevitably melt away.


End file.
